


For All the Perfect Things That I Doubt

by Myth979



Series: Another Cause for Me to Fight [1]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: F/F, F/M, Mentions of Heroic Sacrifice from other angles, Multi, Polyamory, Suicide mention, eventual polyamory, look y'all I don't even know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-23 10:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10717428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myth979/pseuds/Myth979
Summary: Moiraine's not sure if she would be comfortable with uncomplicated anything, but she probably won't have to find out anytime soon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As is usually the case, I don't have much of an explanation. This is a thing. It's happening. The chapters will all be connected but not without time gaps.

Nynaeve cannot Travel to Malkier without knowing the land. No one is quite sure if the land will look like it is supposed to, either, after the Blight, which makes skimming difficult.

So they ride.

Theirs is a large party, with plenty of people and plenty of horses. There isn’t a real reason for Moiraine and Nynaeve to ride double, each taking turns guiding the horse or dozing against the other’s back, but they do it anyway: Thom and Lan seem to find it reassuring, that they are in the same place.

It is patently ridiculous. Moiraine, head against Nynaeve’s shoulder as the new Queen of Malkier fusses at someone for being too loud – _I have faced the Dark One and you will be as much mincemeat if I say so, let the woman sleep_ – does not actually mind.

“What seems to be the problem?” Moiraine asks into Nynaeve’s back, deciding not to remind Nynaeve that she too had faced the Dark One.

“People want to talk to you,” Nynaeve says with a sniff.

“Maybe they want to talk to you.”

“That too.”

Moiraine does not laugh, but only because she has had years of practice. She does sit up straight and flick a bit of air through her hair to put it in place.

The Malkieri as a whole treat her interestingly. It isn’t their fault – there isn’t any protocol for former warder/Aes Sedai pairs in the Tower, let alone outside. Lan let it be known that she was important, somehow, but Aes Sedai advisor doesn’t quite cover it and many of them look at her as if they have heard all of the stories the novices like to circulate about her, and of course, because they are Malkieri, the men never meet her eyes.

Lan has stopped meeting her eyes too. It’s a habit she thought she broke him of, but here he is as if they are once again strangers and he is about to throw her into a pond.

She might be exaggerating. They know each other too well now to behave as if they are strangers. Still, the lack of eye contact grates on her nerves. She is used to Lan being the person in the world she can trust the most, and she is used to being the person in the world he can trust the most.

Moiraine likes it less than she thought she would, not having Lan to lean on.

“Don’t mope,” Nynaeve orders, and Moiraine considers being angry for a moment before letting it go. It is surprisingly difficult to be angry with Nynaeve these days: it might have something to do with facing the incarnation of evil together and putting it back in its place.

“Was I moping?” Moiraine asks.

Nynaeve turns her head so Moiraine’s nose almost touches her cheek and eyes her beadily. Moiraine surprises herself and Nynaeve when she pecks a kiss onto Nynaeve’s cheek and raises a brow.

It has been years – _decades_ – since she was at all playful. Nynaeve harrumphs and turns back, but she is blushing a little. Moiraine raises an eyebrow at Lan, too, when he circles back around with his newly ever-present entourage.

She can feel Thom’s amusement through the bond, a steady, pleasant thing. Thom’s feelings are so unlike Lan’s that it is often startling. For all his talk of romance, she doesn’t feel it through the bond. She might prefer it that way – she is not, after all, a green. Or maybe Thom’s love is always like this, light and protective and hardly at all romantic. She can understand why that would be doubly appealing to someone like Morgase, after Taringail.

Sometimes she wonders what she would have felt from Siuan.

“Moiraine Sedai?” one of the men behind Lan asks. “What are your thoughts?”

This is what she gets for thinking too much: entire missed conversations. “My thoughts are hardly worth mentioning at the moment,” she says, drawing on those years of Aes Sedai mystery.

Nynaeve snorts very quietly. Moiraine is sure only half those present hear.

“Camp just on the rise, then,” Lan says, probably for her benefit. The corner of his mouth is crooked up. “See to it.”

The entourage rushes off. She assumes it means no one worries for his safety when he is with them.

 The horse shifts under them as if it would like to misbehave, but both she and Nynaeve know horses. Lan watches them with a larger smile.

“Someone will set up our tents,” he tells them, Mandarb still as a rock underneath him. She misses her own horse with a sudden pang.

“Aldieb will arrive with the first relief train from Cairhien,” Lan continues as if he can still read her as well as he ever could.

“I can set up my own tent,” Nynaeve informs him.

“Rank has its privileges, Nynaeve,” Moiraine says. “Take some advantage.”

Lan laughs outright at that and the sniff that follows as he dismounts, which is new. She would love Nynaeve just for that, Moiraine thinks, but Nynaeve has probably always been an overachiever, so Nynaeve has also helped her to save the world and stood beside her in actual hell. It had been for Rand, true, but hadn’t Rand been why Moiraine was there too?

He offers her a hand down first and she stares down at him.

“I can dismount,” she says.

“Rank has its privileges,” he and Nynaeve say at the same time, though they use very different tones, so Moiraine sighs and allows it, as does Nynaeve when her turn comes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some time after the first

The surprise on the faces of the visiting Aes Sedai, when they enter the hastily constructed great hall, won’t be visible to the common run. Moiraine knows it, but she still wants to frown at them. Lan will see it, and Moiraine herself sees it. Nynaeve has the excuse of never being fully trained in their traditions even if she had mastered her power, but these Aes Sedai (three greens, a yellow, and a blue, she notes by their shawls) have no such excuse.

Moiraine knows them, too, once she manages a good look at their faces. The tower did not send Leane, but Moiraine thinks they must have been trying to get off on the right foot, with the greens and the representatives of her own and Nynaeve’s ajahs.

That being said, the Tower also wanted them slightly off kilter: one of the greens is Myrelle.

Nynaeve does not make any noises, for which Moiraine is grateful, but she knows her well enough to know that Nynaeve keeps her hands away from her braid through a massive exercise of will.

Once the pleasantries are over and Myrelle and Bera have withdrawn with Moiraine, Lan, and Nynaeve to Lan and Moiraine’s study (Nynaeve kept her own stillroom), Bera (clearly in charge, which must rankle Myrelle to no end) says, “It is always good to see Aes Sedai honored as they should be.”

Moiraine knows she is talking about the chair. Moiraine herself argued about the chair. Lan and Nynaeve would have none of it, so Moiraine sat in a chair level with them on the low dais. She did keep her chair farther back than their thrones.

“Malkier will always honor the Tower,” Lan says, nodding to his wife, who purses her lips at the delegation, and then to Moiraine, who refuses to show any sort of emotion even when Myrelle casts a look at Moiraine’s desk in the corner and raises an eyebrow at her.

Myrelle can go jump in a pond, however grateful Moiraine might be to her for keeping Lan alive. Thom, at the door, sends amusement her way. Moiraine can practically hear the ‘I told you so’.

“The Tower will always honor Malkier,” Bera says smoothly, and unwisely goes on to raise the point Moiraine had known was coming the moment they walked in the door. “Of course, Moiraine won’t return to the tower until you’re comfortable with her replacement.”

Moiraine has crossed the room to Nynaeve by the time Bera has finished speaking and manages to grab her arm and squeeze before Nyaeve’s immediate instinctive profanity-laden response emerges. Nynaeve is no Elayne Trakand, but Moiraine could see the color that rose immediately to her cheeks.

“Why would we need a replacement?” Lan asks mildly, though if Moiraine knows him at all (and she does), his thoughts are tending along the same path as Thom’s, who has gone from amused to silent and watchful in the same amount of time it took Moiraine to cross the room.

“We wish to honor Moiraine Sedai as she deserves,” Bera says, which would be much less menacing if she was addressing Moiraine directly. As it is, Nynaeve grabs Moiraine’s arm as if they are going to wrest her physically away.

“Truly,” Myrelle says, because Myrelle has always been… friend isn’t quite the right word, but only because Siuan is the only one Moiraine ever trusted entirely, in those days. It is too late to be truly friends with her yearmates or even most of her sisters. “There is talk of a seat in the Hall, or even Keeper – the Amyrlin Seat wishes to keep her close.”

By the look Bera sends her way, Myrelle has given more information than Bera is happy with, but Myrelle ignores her.

“Moiraine,” she says, coaxingly. “Come home. Come show us what we should be.”

The offer is, on the face of it, tempting. A seat in the Hall would be better than Keeper: if Cadsuane wants her close then Moiraine is sure she has her reasons – good reasons, even – but Moiraine would be trapped in Tar Valon almost assuredly, and what would she do? Run errands? Face down Aes Sedai sure that because they could wield more Saidar unaided they could ignore her?

She would be a mascot. _Come show us what we should be_ sounds wonderful on the surface, but underneath it is another service at the cost of what Moiraine has come to understand as herself.

Moiraine has given many things in pursuit of saving the world as she knows it, but she has managed not to give up crucial bits of _her_ , and she would like to keep it that way.

Something of it shows in her face, despite everything, or maybe Lan just knows her that well, because he says, “We can honor Moiraine enough here.”

Bera’s eyes flicker just a little at _Moiraine_ , no honorific, and Myrelle raises her other eyebrow, a mischievous look in her eyes, but Nynaeve says too brightly, “Look, here is the steward to show you to your rooms.”

It is Aes Sedai staring down Aes Sedai, just for a moment, but Lan clears his throat. The White Tower does try not to offend rulers overmuch, especially rulers with two Aes Sedai behind him, so Bera and Myrelle acquiesce.

“No one is taking you anywhere,” Nynaeve snaps the moment the door is closed, probably too loudly. “They sent _Edesina_ , did you see her? I’ll have her cowed in three seconds flat, she wouldn’t _dare-_ ”

Thom fetches Moiraine a chair, for which she can only be grateful. Edesina might not dare, but Cadsuane Melaidhrin, Amyrlin Seat, would dare a great deal.

“Who would they even try to replace you with?” Nynaeve demands. “Who else am I going to listen to?”

Lan snorts.

“Maybe they thought you would be open to another blue,” Moiraine says. “Natasia isn’t incompetent.”

It’s Nynaeve’s turn to snort. “I wouldn’t replace you if Tamra Ospenya rose from the dead and offered her services.”

Moiraine says, “That’s wise. You and Tamra would murder each other in the first hour.”

Nyneave sniffs deeply. “I don’t know why you say such things. I can be reasonable.”

“You can,” Moiraine agrees, and catches Lan’s eye.

“Laugh all you like,” Nynaeve tells them, nose in the air as they try to repress smiles. “We shall see who the victor is, if they try to give us someone else.”


	3. Chapter 3

“El’Moiraine!” a woman calls, and Moiraine turns without thought. Myrelle, walking with her, also turns, eyebrows raised in an expression Moiraine is tempted to start calling habitual.

It is nothing time sensitive, just something the woman wouldn’t have brought to Lan, and Nynaeve has locked herself in her stillroom with Edesina. Moiraine is tempted to go rescue the other Yellow sister, but she isn’t sure Myrelle or Edesina need to know she has one of three keys to the room, and she isn’t at all sure that Edesina deserves rescuing.

“You have a place here,” Myrelle remarks when it’s dealt with.

Moiraine does not dignify the comment with a response.

“You have one at the Tower too,” Myrelle continues, hands folded carefully in front of her. Her warders are prowling here and there, but none are immediately visible – not that that means anything. Thom isn’t visible either, and Moiraine can tell he’s just inside the clerk’s room two doors down. Just because Lan would have been at her shoulder in the old days is no reason to feel so suddenly vulnerable.

“Did you bring Natasia to replace me?” Moiraine asks. “Nynaeve will rattle her within a week, if not sooner.”

“Nynaeve would rattle a ghost,” Myrelle says, and Moiraine chooses not to point out that Nynaeve actually _has_ rattled a ghost. “She doesn’t like me, you know.”

Moiraine does know. She has been treated to several discussions on the subject. She is rather selfishly relieved that Nynaeve has settled on disliking Myrelle instead of Moiraine herself.

“She respects you,” Moiraine says instead of any of that. It’s true, but Nynaeve respects several people whose faces she would rather never see again. Moiraine knows the feeling: she is trying to avoid going to one of them now. She wonders sometimes if Nynaeve would care about her at all, if she did not have some claim on Lan still.

But then, Myrelle might be said to have some claim on Lan. He isn’t ever anything but polite with her, but he also avoids being in the room with her without Moiraine or Nynaeve present. Moiraine wants to know what it _means_ : he isn’t afraid, or Nynaeve would be hissing every which way – as, Moiraine admits, she would be, though she likes to think she would be more subtle about it – and he doesn’t dislike Myrelle or he would be a great deal more polite and a great deal less in Myrelle’s company, Moiraine and Nynaeve’s presence or not.

Myrelle waves it off. “I had thought that maybe a familiar face would soothe them, but Nynaeve seems standoffish with Edesina and Bera and Jolene too.”

“She doesn’t like being pushed,” Moiraine says, and meets Myrelle’s eyes straight on for all the height difference. Myrelle knows her well enough, maybe, to read that: _I don’t like being pushed either_.

Myrelle takes her leave, and Moiraine collects Thom on her way to Nynaeve’s stillroom.

“She’s going to wonder why they call you El’Moiraine,” Thom says.

“ _I_ wonder why they call me El’Moiraine,” Moiraine says, and it is just enough of the truth to weasel past the oaths. Barely. She only feels a little tightening of her throat, anyway, and that could be from Nynaeve’s smile when Moiraine walks in and shoos a grateful Edesina out.

Later Lan escorts both of them in to dinner, the first truly formal one in the new palace, and she ignores Myrelle’s knowing look.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the italics, but y'all know how Jordan was with _Important Italics._

“And how are we supposed to know you’re alright?” Nynaeve asks, hands on hips. Lan is crossing his arms and leaning on his desk, still not meeting Moiraine’s eyes.

One day she is going to understand the man. It isn’t today, obviously, and she used to think she already did, but _obviously_ it wasn’t good enough.

“I’m capable of taking care of myself,” Moiraine points out, flicking the official Hall summons more dismissively than she might have otherwise. She may able to channel less _saidar_ without her _angreal_ , but she has killed black ajah and at least one Forsaken without being able to channel at all. Nynaeve is fussing.

“At least take the _angreal_ ,” Lan says.

“And if they decide to take it?” Moiraine asks. Just because she _can_ kill black ajah and Forsaken without channeling doesn’t mean she likes it, or that she likes being able to channel less than she used to. She will suffer a week or a month or even two months or so of less _saidar_ in the interest of being able to use more later, and anyway, the _angreal_ is hers. She _paid_ for it. The Tower can have it when she’s dead.

Lan does not make the same inarticulate sound of frustration as Nynaeve, but he does look more intensely at the floor.

“The Tower is not going to kill me and hide my body,” Moiraine says. “They cannot keep me if I do not wish to stay. They know better by now.”

She hopes they know better by now. She has plenty of ways out of Tar Valon if they haven’t, but she would like to remain on friendly terms if possible.

Lan’s eyes flick up almost to her nose. Progress.

“I wouldn’t put anything past Cadsuane,” Nynaeve mutters.

“I could leave Thom here,” Moiraine offers. “He would know if I was safe.”

She does not need to look at her warder to know his mustache is bristling in offended disdain.

Lan barks a laugh, and Nynaeve snaps, “I’d just send him after you.”

“You can’t keep me here either,” Moiraine says as gently as she knows how, and silence descends.

No one has ever been able to _keep_ Moiraine. She isn’t something to be kept. Her father had tried to keep her, when the sisters came and told her she could be one of them, and she hadn’t let him. The Hall has tried and failed, even when she was newly raised to the shawl and unused to the Oaths. Even the Eelfinn could not keep her long, and Siuan, who might have had the best chance of succeeding, had never tried.

Nynaeve lets a noise breath through her nose. “Fine,” she says. “You’re going if you want to go.”

Moiraine nods as if accepting a great concession, which she might be.

“ _B_ _ut_ ,” Nynaeve says, “you should bond Lan again first.”

Moiraine does not choke, because Moiraine never chokes. She comes much closer to it than she has in decades, though.

Lan slants a glance at his wife, who jerks her chin up stubbornly and crosses her arms too. He shrugs and turns back to Moiraine.

“ _Excuse me_?” Moiraine says, absolutely not stuttering. Thom feels amused all of a sudden, damn him.

“Bond Lan,” Nynaeve repeats. The sound Moiraine makes must be hilarious, because Lan’s mouth quirks at the corners, the corners of his eyes crease just a little.

“I’m glad you find this funny,” Moiraine tells him, and turns back to Nynaeve. “Aside from the _utter inappropriateness_ of bonding another woman’s warder - another woman’s _husband--_ ”

“Don’t be a prude, Moiraine,” Nynaeve says with a sniff.

Moiraine considers calling out the hypocrisy there but decides otherwise. Nynaeve won’t acknowledge her own prudishness under torture now.

“I am a _blue_ ,” Moiraine says instead. “I already have a warder.”

Thom is even more amused. She might not have a warder for long, she thinks darkly, which makes his amusement blossom into outright hilarity.

Nynaeve shrugs, so deliberately casual that Moiraine immediately suspects that this was not, in fact, a spur of the moment idea.

She turns to Lan. “You know the customs better, Lan. I’m not a green. No sister would stand for it.”

“They don’t need to know about it,” he points out, still leaning against the desk. “It isn’t as if anyone can see bonds, and anyway isn’t it our business? Tradition isn’t law, Moiraine.”

She glares, and he meets her stare passively, which is when she realizes that he’s meeting her eyes and has been since Nynaeve suggested this lunacy.

“You want me to?” she asks. It may be the first time she hasn’t hated sounding vulnerable, almost like that pretty little porcelain doll people enjoy likening her to. These three people are people she trusts, even if they are demonstrably insane. They’re the only people she trusts, really.

“I miss you,” Lan tells her, and taps his temple with his forefinger. “It isn’t the same in here without you.”

“I should hope not,” Nynaeve mutters, and it’s Thom’s turn to snort.

“I thought you were angry with me,” Moiraine admits. “You do have reason to be.”

“I was angry,” Lan says. “I still am, a little. You _killed yourself_ , Moiraine. I would have done it instead, so you didn’t tell me, and you died.”

“I had to get rid of Lanfear somehow,” Moiraine says. “But yes. I knew you would do it instead, and I didn’t want you to. I wanted you to be happy, eventually.”

She’d seen all sorts of possible outcomes in Rhuidean. This one is the best outcome by far, despite everything, so she can’t really be sorry for doing it, but she is sorry that she left Lan behind.

“I know,” Lan says. “I wanted you to be happy, though. Cross purposes. So I’m still a little angry. But I miss you more.”

She could, she supposes, argue that she hadn’t technically killed herself - she hadn’t known for sure what would happen when she tackled Lanfear through the door - but she isn’t sure she could argue _successfully._ She has always had good reasons for throwing herself into danger, but she has always done either with Lan or with his knowledge that she has some chance of returning. It’s possible that she has spent too much time with him: _death is lighter than a feather, duty heavier than a mountain_ has been all too much on her mind these last few years, but Lan has never been able to make it apply to her in his own mind. She has never decided whether it is that she a woman or that she is herself, but as she is undeniably both she supposes that in this specific case it doesn’t matter. Lan has never stopped her from entering mortal peril, but he has always insisted on joining her and vice versa. With Lanfear she left him behind, and she did it without notice, and she passed his bond along to someone else to make sure he couldn’t follow.

If he does want her to bond him again, it seems like the least she can do.

She holds out a hand, and he takes it, and, well. It feels too simple when Lan settles into her mind, but it also feels right.

“I think, under the circumstances,” she says, feeling through his emotions like a child running a favorite blanket through their hands over and over again, luxuriating in the sense of _home_ that she and Thom haven’t quite cultivated, “It might not be suitable to have you swear those oaths again.”

Lan shrugs, and points out, “I have already sworn them. I’m not absolved of them by a little bit of death and resurrection.”

Moiraine frowns at him, but he already knows she finds his dry humor funny. He knew before, and now he’s in her head again, so the frown loses some impact.

She smiles and, partly to try to catch him off guard but mostly because she wants to, Moiraine kneels before him, his hand now in both of hers. “What is it you said?” she asks, but she doesn’t wait for an answer: the words are carved into her somewhere so deep the Eelfinn couldn’t reach them, and if they had tried to take them from her she would have bitten and clawed and brought their city down around their pointed ears.

“By my mother’s name,” she says, making sure he can feel every drop of sincerity and real faith she puts into the words. Lan wouldn’t abuse these oaths, and that is why it is safe to give them to him, as he had given them to her. “By my mother’s name, I will draw as you say draw. I will sheathe as you say sheathe. By my mother’s name, I will come as you say come and go as you say go.”

There is a pause long enough that Moiraine feels awkward, so she clarifies, “Most of the time, anyway.”

Thom snickers.

“Now we’ve both sworn,” Moiraine continues, ignoring her warder. Her other warder. Her second warder? Or is he her first, since she had had to re-bond Lan? She’ll figure it out later. “So here we are.”

Lan says nothing, just blinks. He’s gone blank with surprise in her head. She hopes she hasn’t broken him.

“I promise none of those things to any of you,” Nynaeve announces. “Get the idea out of your heads.”

Lan laughs, sounding surprised to do so, looking down at Moiraine with a degree of wonder that she should probably find disconcerting.

She doesn’t.

Nynaeve drags Moiraine and Thom off to pack appropriately, and Lan still leans against the desk. Moiraine can feel him thinking hard.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look no one who knows me expected me _not_ to play with the Eelfinn  & Aelfinn Thing. I can't even be sorry.

The morning Moiraine is supposed to leave, a messenger comes riding into the capital to report a minor emergency with the blight wall. Nynaeve’s skill with Earth is directly tied to Healing, so Moiraine says she will go. Moiraine hasn’t ever thought of herself as particularly strong in Earth but she has learned the trick of _cuendillar,_ which she supposes means she is stronger in Earth than she thought.

Or that she has _become_ stronger in Earth. She hasn’t yet discovered all of the tiny changes that come from being effectively dead and held outside of time as the world knows it, but she knows there are some. Maybe she took something from the Eelfinn and Aelfinn when she went. She likes to think so, anyway: they took enough from her.

She leaves Myrelle and Bera and the others waiting, possibly in the courtyard. She assumes they will eventually retire to their rooms or leave without her, but she also does not care. Malkier is more important.

The blight wall is the first thing they built, even before the palace. Moiraine and Lan and Nynaeve and Thom had been huddled in the ruins of one of the Seven Towers to sleep, gating out every morning to build and back every night and building building building during the day, Lan and Thom with muscle and the rest of their people and Moiraine and Nynaeve with _saidar_ until that failed Moiraine and she started ferrying water to everyone. The third day she had begun wearing her _angreal_ all the time, which had sped up building considerably.

Southerners seem to believe that trollocs and myrddraal and other blighted abominations disappeared after Tarmon Gai’don. Borderlanders know better. The blight no longer spreads, but it _stays_ , rooted in after centuries of near-unchecked spread. Even in Malkier, where the blight has held sway for less than half a century, it digs its claws in and holds. Presumably darkfriend channelers still exist as well, however well purged the Tower: everyone knows now that channelers do not reside only in the Tower.

Moiraine stops by her room to put on her _angreal_ , just in case. A mildly irritated Lan is miles and miles south, meeting with other rulers to continue the Dragon’s Peace, but a more irritated Nynaeve is there to see her off.

“You’re leaving me with _bureaucrats_ ,” she says as Moiraine and Thom step through the gateway.

“You have my permission to be uncivil,” Moiraine replies. Nynaeve’s surprised bark of laughter seems to linger a moment longer than it should when Moiraine lets the gateway close. They have emerged in a small, heavily marked courtyard amongst the ruins of what Moiraine presumes to be another of the Seven Towers. There is a small group of soldiers waiting outside, weapons ready, but they relax when they see her.

Thom says, “Those Aes Sedai aren’t going to like waiting.”

“That is unfortunate for them,” Moiraine says, and steps towards the guards.

“Moiraine Sedai,” says the one in front, a sergeant by his collar tabs and raised Kandori by his mustache, “we are holding, but the wall is not.”

She nods, and he remembers that he is Malkieri and lowers his eyes.

The men behind him give deeper bows, and one, who wears a hadori, says, “El’Moiraine, there are shades, and perhaps one channeler.”

“I suppose I should deal with both,” she says dryly. “Take me to them.”

Thom falls in behind her when she follows the men, and she can’t help but feel slightly ridiculous. Borderlands men are tall, and Thom isn’t short in the least. To a man, they are at least a foot taller than her.

She stops feeling ridiculous at the wall and manages to stop asking why they hadn’t sent for help earlier. There were no channelers here, or at least none on their side, or the problem would have been dealt with earlier: the messenger had presumably ridden as quickly as possible.

“It was just trollocs before, my lady,” the sergeant says. “The shades didn’t show until after we sent for aid.”

There are five myrddraal. It is more of a mercy than it appears at first, as she assumes the channeler is focusing on controlling the myrddraal instead of killing with the One Power. Otherwise, there would be fewer of her people mounting the defense and much less wall for them to defend.

She is glad she brought her _angreal._ This would have been tricky without it.

The wall is built just past the steaming muck of what used to be one of the Thousand Lakes. The trollocs are trying to push through a gap made presumably by the ram they are still wielding, but Malkier holds. There is a swelling feeling in her chest that is almost uncomfortable, and it takes her a moment to recognize it as pride.

A Malkieri tries to hold his ground against the ram, but slips in the muck at the edge of the one time lake and tumbles in. He lunges back for land immediately, but something slithers under the water and yanks him back. He does not come up again.

The pride turns abruptly to fury. How dare they? There is enough to deal with here at home. How _dare_ these things come and make it more difficult? Malkier is clawing its way back to a country, dealing with monsters and remnants and yes even bureaucrats, and someone wants to come here and stop it?

Moiraine will not allow it.

Distantly she feels Lan begin to worry, and much closer Thom, too, but she has a goal. She has a plan. She needs to feel endangered for it to work, of course.

She walks straight into the lake.

 

* * *

 

More accurately, she walks straight _over_ the lake. The sludge is disgusting and she would rather not get it on her dress. There is a loud _thump_ against the solid pane of Air she has laid across the lake, and the sergeant shouts, but Thom is faster and joins her in the middle of the water as whatever is in it realizes it cannot break through and rises to the side instead.

It is very large, and very slimy, and very toothy. Those teeth are large. It is something like an eel, only it has slender clawed limbs.

Thom mutters under his breath, ready to throw himself between her and the monster.

Moiraine forms another solid block of Air and shoves it back into the lake.

“I am coming back for you,” she tells it, and keeps walking. She puts a third block of Air just in front of the gap in the wall when she can finally see the whole thing. There are still trollocs attacking her people, but now there are more attacking her wall to _get_ to her people and only one myrddraal is on this side.

It is only up for a moment before she feels another channeler fingering the weave, looking for thin spots to drive through or a weak thread to tear.

Moiraine can’t tell if the channeler is using _saidar_ or _saidin_ . Something about spending months or years or centuries or eons uncounted with the Eelfinn and the Aelfinn outside her world has muddied it up in her senses, or made it not matter, maybe. She supposes that it will be convenient in the future, but now it is a nuisance. Who is she _looking_ for?

She opens a Skimming gateway, Thom on her heels, and crosses the platform to the other side, emerging on an uninhabited stretch of battlements. Another legacy of her stay in the Tower of Ghenji, or whatever place the tower led to: she has always been capable of multiple weaves at a time, but it has always been a strain. Now she can hold four or five at a once almost effortlessly, though probably it depends on the complexity of the weave involved. Would she be able to do it without her _angreal_? She doesn’t want to find out. She drops the gateway the moment Thom emerges and scans the land before the wall.

Malkier has spent five years now reclaiming the land, cutting and burning and planting. Moiraine has used her cloud dancing so often that she sometimes thinks she does it while asleep, letting rain wash the taint away and nourish the new seeds. Malkier still fights for their land.

No one fights for the land beyond the wall. In the distance she sees something her eyes can’t quite make sense of. It gobbles up a trolloc and disappears. She looks back at the immediate threat to see that all five myrddraal have turned to look at her, though at least the one inside the wall pays for it with a missing head.

She releases her Air waves in the lake, still scanning. Is there a human in this mess? Have they inverted their weaves?

Thom’s shout of warning allows her to meet the fireball arcing towards them with one of her own. The explosion is spectacular, but she ignores it to take the simplest approach to stop the enemy channeler. She weaves and lets the result settle into the ground outside the wall.

The first tremor is tiny, barely enough to move a few pebbles. The trollocs don’t even notice anything until the third, when the earth starts to shudder open.

Also, she starts hurling fireballs. She does not feel subtlety is appropriate in this situation.

The next weave the other channeler throws at her isn’t one she recognizes, but it feels nasty when she twines her own weave of Spirit around it and tugs, like trying to untangle a skein of thread.

 _There_. Far, far back, still in sight of the myrddraal but trying to avoid being sighted for fear of arrows.

The woman looks up and bares her teeth. Moiraine skims again, Thom barely hopping in after her before she lets the old opening close.

“Lan wouldn’t let you do this,” he mutters.

“That’s what you think,” Moiraine retorts, feeling Lan’s increasing worry in the back of her mind, and hurls a shield through the gateway even as it opens in front of the other channeler. It surges, stretching nearly to breaking - the woman is already in touch with _saidar_ , and she’s fighting it with all her might - but Moiraine just makes it thicker, heavier, drawing on her _angreal_ more strongly. She follows the shield up with a slap full across the woman’s face.

The brief moment of surprise - the one Moiraine always revels in, the one that happens every time someone shields her or calls her a pretty little porcelain doll or disregards her because she’s small, because she’s pretty, because she can’t channel right now, the one that always follows when she does something like, say, stab a member of the black ajah or slap a darkfriend channeler across the face - is enough for the shield to snap into place. Moiraine bundles the woman up with Air before a brief shock of fear from Thom makes her look around.

He’s killed several trollocs already, but more are taking note of the humans in their midst, and that the one controlling them has been incapacitated. They may be in disarray from the crevasses that have opened and subsequently disappeared, taking many of the trollocs with them, but there are still at least two myrddraal. Her Malkieri are barricading the wall gap behind her Air shield.

“Moiraine,” Thom says, warning in his tone and her mind.

She doesn’t heed it, but she does reach out to pull him closer. “Hold her?” she asks, and drops all of her Air weaves.

Thom catches the channeler before she can do more than register her brief freedom, grabbing her hands and turning so he stands back to back with Moiraine.

He trusts her. She smiles grimly and unleashes a maelstrom of flame, the three of them at the center.

Fire spirals out, but it moves oddly, as if it is made up of living creatures. Oh, of course, she thinks, as the shapes resolve into leaping foxes and quick-striking vipers. She reaches out to pet one when it stops to smile at her, but Thom catches her wrist and the worry she feels from him stops her trying again.

When the fire fades away, there are no trollocs or myrddraal, but there is a fox. It sits panting happily in front of her for a moment, as if waiting for her full and complete attention, before giving a silent yip and fading away, a grey-brown snake slithering after it.

“I’ve never seen that weave before,” the other channeler says, oddly toneless. Moiraine glances back to see that her eyes are wide and glassy, as if she is afraid.

“Many things can be learned in the Tower,” Moiraine says. She cannot help but add, “Including ethics.”

That earns her a blank stare. She ignores it and opens yet another gateway, skimming back to the battlements.

The soldiers bow as she weeps past them and down the stairs, Thom dragging the darkfriend with them. She nods to them all, but does not stop to talk.

“Go ahead and knock her unconscious, unless someone here has forkroot,” she says. “I am about to try something and I don’t want my concentration split.”

Thom looks and feels vaguely uncomfortable, so she touches the woman with Spirit and puts her to sleep instead.

“We will need a more permanent solution than that eventually,” she says, and goes back to the lake.

Everyone has left a clear space around the lake. It’s putrid, stinking surface doesn’t show so much as a ripple, but no one here is fooled.

Moiraine steps to the edge. Still nothing happens. She does not like the idea of a cunning monster in her lake.

Still less does she like the idea of _multiple_ cunning monsters in her lake, but that is apparently what she has. One breaks the surface and rushes her as if it knows how to overtake channelers, and another charges over the other bank, spindly legs carrying it surprisingly quickly over land.

Moiraine flicks out a thread of air and yanks that one back. Then, as Thom runs full force into the barrier of Air she raises around the lake, she draws up every speck of _saidar_ she can muster as she steps into the water to meet them.

As Moiraine has never considered herself strong in Earth, she has never really thought of herself as strong in Fire. She can use it, true, but she has never had the same facility as, say, Elaida. As with so many things, that seems to have changed.

It’s the foxes again, one dancing around her feet as its fellows cackle and lunge, harrying the monsters here and there, steam rising where their feet touch sludge and making the monsters scream. She can’t see outside her circle of flames. She can’t _feel_ outside her circle of flames, except Lan, somewhere far south, whose worry has abated because hers has.

Moiraine is certainly not worried. Moiraine is something closer to elated, feeding more and more power into the flames, making them rise higher and higher and higher until she can’t see the sky, either, just more dancing foxes. The muck around her feet and ankles sinks, solidifying: she does not bother to step out of the hollows, she just applies more heat until she stands only in ashes.

That is what is left, here in the lake. Ashes and fire and a dry lake bed. Even the creatures’ bones have burned up. How she remains is not a mystery exactly, but it does not make logical sense either.

It doesn’t matter. She isn’t a white, to care too much about logic. She does know that if she doesn’t stop this, it might spread or become too hot, and her people don’t have her same not-quite-logical existence to fall back on.

“That’s enough,” she tells the foxes. They do not balk exactly, but they exude a certain disappointment. She does not care. They are hers, apparently, something else she paid for along with her _angreal_ , and they will listen.

In the end they do. One takes longer than the others,and she would swear it winked at her, but it goes. She stands alone in a dried up lake, not a smear of sludge to be found.

We will need rain, she thinks, and passes out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been brought to my attention that I never addressed the whole 'Thom and Moiraine got married in the books' thing. Basically? I don't ship it, so in this verse it didn't happen.

Moiraine wakes to Nynaeve sitting beside her, rain pattering softly on the tent roof overhead and Thom sitting on his heels at the entrance.

“That was quite the display,” Nynaeve says as she lays one hand against Moiraine’s forehead and cradles her face with the other. Moiraine can feel the delving weaves as Nynaeve checks for injury. It is at least the third time, if Moiraine knows Nynaeve at all. One thumb strokes softly over Moiraine’s cheekbone even if Nynaeve’s face is a study in Aes Sedai calm.

Moiraine does not like it: Nynaeve is never a study in Aes Sedai calm.

“I wasn’t there, of course,” Nynaeve continues, “but everyone assures me of it.”

Moiraine winces, and Nynaeve’s face melts into concern.

“I’m not hurt,” Moiraine assures her as the delving goes deeper. “You look as if you are about to scold me.”

“Do you deserve to be scolded?” Nynaeve asks, which is when Moiraine realizes that Lan is not only tenser than when last she checked, he is also nearby. She hopes he did not do anything rash when he felt her pass out, like run out on planned meetings with other rulers.

She is almost certain he did something rash.

When she says nothing, Thom tells her, “You earned me a lecture on a warder’s duty to his Aes Sedai.”

“Lan never stopped me doing anything, so the next time you see him you should call him a hypocrite,” Moiraine retorts.

“From _this_ one,” Thom says, nodding at Nynaeve, who does not look ashamed in the least.

Moiraine frowns at her. Nynaeve flicks a bit of invisible dirt from her sleeve.

“There’s a giant mudpit feet from our door,” Nynaeve says when Moiraine says nothing.

Moiraine can feel Lan coming closer. He is less tense but more irritable.

“It was an ash pit yesterday,” Thom points out. “And before that it was a stinking pile of slop with monsters inside.”

“How many died?” Moiraine asks.

“Monsters?” Thom asks back, though he does not feel as jocular as he sounds.

Moiraine levels a look at him. She is not Rand, to recite a list of those she has failed, but she will know who she failed to save this time.

“We’re still taking count,” Lan says as he enters. He can’t stand up in the tent, so he kneels next to Thom. “Stop doing that.”

He does not mean counting dead men.

“I will do all I can until I can’t anymore,” Moiraine retorts, sitting up and crossing her arms. She is only in her shift, but it doesn’t matter: everyone in this tent has seen her in less.

“You will be doing plenty longer than I will,” Lan says. “Pace yourself. You should know how better than me.”

She sighs and relents. “I didn’t plan it. I just wanted to stop her, and then those things were eating our people.”

“A scorched earth policy does seem appropriate when dealing with darkspawn monstrosities,” Nynaeve says, rallying to her defense and wrapping an arm around Moiraine’s shoulders despite clearly being displeased earlier. “Leave her alone, Lan, she was doing what she needed to.”

Thom snorts. Nynaeve glares at him.

Moiraine, who feels as weak as she maybe ever has, leans into Nynaeve gratefully. Lan sighs and changes the subject.

“Is this you?” he asks, gesturing at the rain.

“No,” Moiraine says, and then remembers thinking that they would need rain. “I don’t think so.”

“She doesn’t think so,” Thom mutters to Lan under his breath.

“She isn’t channeling,” Nynaeve says. “Rain is good, Lan. Don’t make a fuss over it.”

Thom says, “I’m going to go see about some food,” and leaves.

Lan kicks off his boots and joins them in the tent proper, sitting cross-legged and letting his shoulders relax. “Don’t _do_ that again,” he says again. “Bullen had to give my excuses to Far Madding.”

“You should have stayed,” Moiraine says.

“You were unconscious,” Lan retorts. “All I knew was that you were alive, which was an improvement on _certain other times_ , but I didn’t know where you were other than not with Nynaeve, I didn’t know what was happening, and do I need to say again that _you were unconscious_?”

“Malkier should come first,” Moiraine began, but Lan, for possibly the first time in their acquaintance, cuts her off.

“You are part of Malkier. You and Nynaeve – how do I care for Malkier without the two of you?”

There is a long silence, during which Nynaeve pulls Moiraine a little closer. It is almost protective, as if someone is going to burst in and try to take Moiraine away.

“Oh,” Moiraine says, finally.

“ _Oh_ ,” Lan agrees, and Nynaeve snickers.

“They call me El’Moiraine, you know,” Moiraine says. “Some of them.”

“I know,” Lan says. “I think more will now.”

“You get the politics,” Nynaeve says cheerfully in her ear. “I will stick to yelling at misbehaving courtiers.”

“I think we all get the politics,” Moiraine says. “I think yelling at misbehaving courtiers is part of politics.”

“Ugh,” Nynaeve says, and that is that.

 

* * *

 

 

“I hear you purified an entire lake,” Bera says days later, when Moiraine feels up to dealing with the other Aes Sedai and Nynaeve and Lan and Thom feel up to letting her. The Aes Sedai had not left, and had not even registered much disapproval over Moiraine’s delay.

Moiraine decides they are up to something. Thom feels wary through the bond, though he looks relaxed enough standing with the other warders.

“Stories always grow as they are told,” Moiraine replies, and Myrelle laughs while Jolene looks sour and Natasia and Edesina look around warily, as if Nynaeve will leap around a corner at them and begin lecturing about Healing.

“ _I_ heard you felled a darkfriend channeler with one weave before doing it,” Myrelle teases, “and I also heard that Al’Lan Mandragoran bolted from a meeting like a startled hare to come see for himself that you were well. Tell me, does something of the bond still linger?”

Moiraine raises an eyebrow. Of course Myrelle would be more interested in that part than the rest – she would wager only Natasia had even taken note of the news of Lan’s swift departure, and Natasia would not have been interested in what Moiraine had to do with it. “Do you still feel some connection to him?”

Myrelle sighs and shakes her head. Moiraine knows she is a good person – _knows it_ , in the gut-deep way she knew she would find the Dragon, and how she knew that Rand would, in the end, save them all. She wouldn’t have passed to bond to Myrelle otherwise.

That doesn’t mean Myrelle’s continued, if somewhat vague, interest in Lan is at all pleasant.

“Then why would I?” Moiraine asks, and turns back to Bera before Myrelle can question her further. “Shall we?”

Thankfully it is Myrelle who opens the gateway, so Moiraine can step through and ignore her.

On the other side she greets those few she knows and hurries off. She has no real excuse to avoid her sisters aside from that of awkwardness: before, she could have commanded a room by being in it based on her strength in _saidar_ alone. Now she is the lowest ranked, especially without her _angreal_ , and she cannot think anyone would know what to do with her even if she knew what to do with herself. Best to avoid the entire question.

The Keeper of the Chronicles, Iseult Brangaine, nods respectfully at Moiraine when she presents herself but tells her that the Amyrlin Seat is busy and will summon her when ready. Moiraine, who expected as much, nods and turns to go, but stops when Iseult puts two fingers to her wrist.

“Tai’shar Malkier,” Iseult says softly, and behind her one of her warders bows. He is wearing a hadori.

The moment is broken when a dreamy voice proclaims, “I _knew_ I could find the reference! Iseult, you must let me in to see those secret shelves no one is supposed to know about.”

Iseult sighs and turns to deal with the indiscreet brown. Moiraine makes her escape.

Her rooms are not empty, technically: there is the usual bed and wardrobe and a few chairs in the sitting room. All of her personal effects are gone, though.

In retrospect, she should have considered this.

“I suppose Elaida would have wanted all of my things removed,” she remarks, all the years of Aes Sedai calm and composure allowing her to sound unmoved even though Thom is the only one who can hear, and Thom knows that she is upset.

“They could have put them back,” Thom says, a tiny ball of anger in the back of her head, and she smiles at him.

“It’s only for a few days.”

Thom purses his lips.

“Yes?” she asks.

“I bow to the master of Tar Valon politics,” he says, “but Cadsuane Melaidhrin is not a woman easily gainsaid.”

“Cadsuane does not need to be easily gainsaid,” Moiraine replies. “She only needs to realize that I will gainsay her if I wish.”

 

* * *

 

 

Moiraine is not stupid enough to say as much to Cadsuane’s face three days later, of course. She stands politely while the Amyrlin sits looking at her for long minutes.

Silence is a tool Moiraine has used often. It is almost always effective, but Moiraine has a secret weapon in the form of Lan’s bond. She starts sorting through it, organizing it the way she used to so that it doesn’t leak into her own emotions and she can always find exactly what she’s looking for. It doesn’t take the entirety of the time Cadsuane stares silently at her, but it takes most of it.

“I wish you would tell me what you want, Mother,” Moiraine says finally.

“I want you back to your full strength,” Cadsuane says. “I thought that girl might find some way to Heal you, or I’d never have let you go off with her.”

 _That girl_ being Nynaeve, Moiraine supposed. Well. “I’m afraid the situation in regards to my channeling is permanent.”

“Hmmm,” Cadsuane says, looking down at a piece of paper. “And yet I have reports of, and here I quote, _miraculous_ displays of channeling.”

She puts the tiny piece of paper down and rests her hands on the desk.

Moiraine says nothing.

“I want you back in the Tower,” Cadsuane says.

“I have never served best in the Tower,” Moiraine replies.

“Now you will. It will take time and effort, especially given your new handicap, but I’m convinced I can make the Hall see reason. I will come back and make them, if necessary.”

“Come back from?” Moiraine asks, though she has a terrible suspicion of what Cadsuane’s ‘reason’ entails.

“ _Death_ , girl,” Cadsuane snaps. “I will make you into my successor. You will lead the Tower into this new age, when I finally die and am rid of the lot.”

Cadsuane cannot technically choose a successor, but Moiraine does not think Cadsuane will let that stop her.

For a moment she imagines it: she could make the world dance to her tune, maybe more effectively than she ever has. What could she do, with the might of the White Tower behind her? What problems could she solve?

What could she do for Malkier, as the Amyrlin Seat? They would not have to worry about support, not for a hundred years or more if Moiraine lives, and she does plan to live.

She couldn’t live in Malkier, though. She would have to be here, in the Tower, which used to be home.

Home is not the Tower any more, if it ever was. Home has been Lan for more than twenty years, and now it is Nynaeve and Thom too.

“I will have to think about it,” Moiraine says.

Cadsuane does not look impressed, but after a moment she sighs. “You were always a silly girl,” she says. “Tough. Smart. _Irritatingly independent_. But silly.”

“Thank you,” Moiraine says. Cadsuane waves her out, and Moiraine barely remembers to curtsey.

She returns to her rooms, thinking furiously, only to find company.

Aviendha sits with Thom in front of Moiraine’s fireplace, sipping tea.

“Aviendha,” Moiraine says, shooting a quick glance at Thom. “What a surprise. How are the children?”

“Strong in mind and strong in power,” Aviendha says with great satisfaction. “They are with Elayne and Min, for now, with their siblings.”

Moiraine should visit Rand’s children. She should visit Elayne, too, some day: her niece is an acquaintance to cultivate, and, after all, her niece, no matter how terrible Taringail had been.

“Nynaeve al’Meara is well?” Aviendha asks. “And Lan Mandragoran?”

“Strong in mind and strong in power,” Moiraine says.

“That is good.”

Moiraine accepts a cup of tea from Thom and waits.

“I have only recently learned of your kinship with Elayne,” Aviendha says after three more sips of tea. “I was surprised that you were not better acquainted, though I suppose you are not her mother’s sister.”

“No,” Moiraine agrees.

Aviendha nods, and says, “I owe you much, Moiraine Sedai. Elayne too, though she could not come to see you now.”

“No one owes me anything,” Moiraine says, though she cannot quite make herself say that she did nothing for anyone in particular.

“Wetlanders,” Aviendha says, almost fondly, and sets down her tea. “Well, if it is not debt, let me offer something in friendship: you went to Rhuidean the once and walked through the rings, as apprentices do. I offer the chance to walk the columns as a Wise One would.”

Moiraine eyes her. Aviendha picks up her tea again, adds a touch more sugar, and sips it sedately.

“Everyone knows the visions in the pillars,” Moiraine says. “And they would not test me the way they would have tested Aiel.”

Aviendha shrugs. “Perhaps.”

“ _Perhaps_ ,” Moiraine repeats. “There is something else there. Something you want me to look at.”

The small smile she receives is not coy – Aviendha never could manage coyness – but it is certainly secretive. “If you like.”

Moiraine looks at Thom. Thom looks at her.

“It might do me good to leave Tar Valon,” Moiraine admits. “I am afraid I cannot Travel on my own.”

Aviendha’s smile was larger this time, as she set her tea down and stood. “It would be my honor, Moiraine Sedai, to escort you to Rhuidean.”

Moiraine does not even pack.


	7. Chapter 7

They leave Thom in Tar Valon, ostensibly to monitor the goings on. At Moiraine’s request, Aviendha sends a messenger to Malkier when they reach Rhuidean: Moiraine can only imagine what Lan will think when he feels her skip leagues east of where she is expected to be, and Nynaeve, when he tells her, will probably appear in Tar Valon in a spitting rage over Moiraine’s presumed kidnapping. Moiraine wants to avoid that.

The messenger returns only minutes later with Nynaeve’s instructions not to pass out again.

“As if it happens all the time,” Moiraine mutters, and Aviendha pretends politely that she hears none of it.

Bair and Sorilea wait in the room Aviendha leads her to.

“I was not aware I still needed testing,” Moiraine says dryly.

“A formality,” Bair replies, and pours them all small cups of water. Moiraine accepts one and joins them in sitting cross-legged, arranging her skirts as neatly as she can with one hand.

“I wished to see you, when the Aes Sedai who visit tell me you are humbled,” Sorilea says once they have all drunk. She smiles crookedly. “You do not appear humbled.”

“Am I in need of humbling?”

Bair cackles. “You always were my favorite, Moiraine Damodred. After Egwene al’Vere.”

All four of them take a moment to remember Egwene. _I want to learn_ , Moiraine hears again, memories so strong she doesn’t think she will ever shake them. Egwene will always be numbered among her successes, but she will be listed in Moiraine’s failures too.

“Egwene was a great Aes Sedai and a better Amyrlin,” Moiraine says. She knows it to be true, no matter how little she experienced it. “I would have served her gladly.”

“You would have advised her gladly,” Sorilea corrects.

Moiraine shrugs. “It is much the same thing, among Aes Sedai.”

Aviendha nods. “I have brought Moiraine Sedai to walk the pillars. By custom, three Wise Ones must approve. I am the first.”

“I accept Moiraine Sedai’s right to walk the pillars, as one who has walked the rings,” Bair replies. “I am the second.”

“I am the third,” Sorilea says. “I charge Moiraine Damodred Aes Sedai of Malkier to see as well as walk. I bid her put one foot forward and then the other, and I bid her to bear up under the weight.”

Moiraine wonders if these are new words or old, and how much the Aiel have had to adapt their traditions, but she says only, “I take this charge and swear to do so.”

The response is, apparently, acceptable. Aviendha opens a gateway there in the room. Moiraine thinks she recognizes the spot, but she isn’t positive. The desert is not her prefered environment.

She realizes, as she had not before, that she is expected to walk to Rhuidean. Of course she is. She holds in her sigh, straightens her skirts (mourning for them preemptively), accepts the large flask of water Bair hands her and Sorilea’s gentle touch to her forehead, and steps through.

 _Aiel,_ she thinks, sounding like Nynaeve in her own head, but then she starts forward. One foot, and then the other.

 

* * *

 

 

Moiraine does not cheat even a little. No one told her any rules, and therefore she is not barred from using _saidar_ any more than she is barred from using any other tool. A quick bolt of fire sears a lizard that hisses at her, and she delves it to make sure it won’t poison her if she eats it. It won’t, so she cooks it just a little more before she creates and ties off a weave that lets little breezes run over her constantly.

The heat does not bother her as much as she remembers, which is a good thing, since even those tiny exertions are enough to leave her panting. It seems that she _can_ maintain multiple weaves without her _angreal_. It also seems that it is unwise to do so.

She rests during the hottest part of the day in the hollow of a dune as Lan taught her to do last time, ignoring the sand her tiny breezes kick up, and when it is cool enough she stands. Sorilea laid the directions in her head with that touch, so she knows the way.

She puts one foot forward, and then the other.

 

* * *

 

 

It takes her five days to return to Rhuidean. Probably an Aiel could have done it faster, but Moiraine is not an Aiel. The pillars stand in front of her and she walks through them.

She is not an Aiel, to be broken and remade by the story of her ancestors, and though it is interesting on an academic level she already knows her forbears were not people she would choose to spend time with.

On the other side she sighs and drains the last of her water. Aviendha wanted her to look at something. What else is there?

Something flickers at the edge of her vision. She turns.

There, halfway through the walk of pillars, sits a fox. It’s laughing at her. She fixes it with her best quelling stare and examines the area around it more closely: there, wrapped around a nearby pillar, is its snake companion. It flicks its tongue at her.

She supposes it won’t hurt anything to go back through.

Moiraine steps back into the pillars, one foot and then the other.

 

* * *

 

 

She is El’Helane Mandragoran, last True Blade of Malkier, and she stands alone. The mosaics of her ancestors that line the walls stare down at her in judgment or maybe pity, and not least among them are Al’Lan and El’Nynaeve and El’Moiraine, who hold pride of place above the entry doors and over her head. Maybe those three could have found some way out of this, but they are centuries dead. Helane is at fourteen years old the last in a long line of kings, and she has only this.

The doors burst open, trollocs and myrddraal and channelers aplenty, along with all sorts of unnamed monstrosities left to languish in the blight. Helane bats aside the shields the channelers try to bring to bear - she is of the line of El’Moiraine, and shields mean nothing to her, not now.

Perhaps if El’Nynaeve’s line had survived, Malkier would not be as it is - or, she supposes, was. Perhaps if El’Nynaeve’s line had survived Malkier would be a nation of healers, a nation led by kings and queens who purified the land, who fed and seeded and grew, but Helane is of the line of El’Moiraine. Her talents lay elsewhere.

Helane calls her foxes and her snakes and her tiny, barely-there connection to _somewhere else_ , and she _wishes_ with all her might. Because Malkier is hers - because she _is_ Malkier - her wish is answered.

Malkier - Malkier, who stood a thousand years before the blight before it fell, Malkier who rose again, Malkier who now stands alone - Malkier splits open, cracks rending the earth from border to border, from Moiraine’s Wall to the Cairhein border, and fire rains down. Malkier burns, and the invading hosts burn with it.

Helane burns too.

 

* * *

 

 

Moiraine coughs, her throat full of ash and dirt and terror, but she puts one foot forward, and then the other.

 

* * *

 

 

He is Al’Tyr Mandragoran of the line of El’Moiraine, and he shakes his head at the dithering of his fellow rulers. They are fools if they think even Moiraine’s Wall will keep shadowspawn from invading entirely. Malkier might hold longer than the other borderlands because of it, but it did not mean they will not fall eventually.

Then again, if Malkier falls Cairhein will be a borderland nation. It will serve them right, and probably all of Malkier’s Shienar-blooded citizens will feel that even more strongly than Tyr, whose Andoran cousins are still bitter over Andor’s loss of Cairhein and whose other cousins are dead in Cairhein’s pursuit of influence.

He doesn’t count the Cairhein cousins. Moiraine hadn’t either, when she had mobilized her Aes Sedai to crush the threat to the Dragon’s Peace that Cairhein represented.

“We can send no aid to Malkier,” Setalia of Far Madding says finally, when all of the bickering is finished.

“You are making a grave mistake,” Tyr tells her, daring to meet her eyes, His Andoran cousins tell him it makes him more convincing to women who aren’t Malkieri.

“This body has decided.”

Tyr grits his teeth and says, “When it is Cairhein that protects you from the blight, you will regret this.”

Setalia raises an eyebrow at him. “If Malkier is so in need,” she says, “perhaps they should ask the Tower. We know how the Aes Sedai care for you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Moiraine chokes on bitterness and Tyr’s fury and the pure disdain in Setalia’s voice when she speaks of the Tower. That anyone can be so openly contemptuous of it, imply some sort of favoritism, makes her furious. That she is involved in it somehow… nausea curls in the pit of her stomach.

The worst is these Malkieri, these Mandragorans, helpless. Trapped. She doesn’t want to see more.

But the only way out is through, so she puts on foot forward, and then the other.

 

* * *

 

 

She is Alwyn Mandragoran Aes Sedai, niece of Al’Rand Mandragoran of Malkier, and she cannot seem to stop stroking her shawl. It is a gift from the Amyrlin Seat, a show of favor to a granddaughter who followed her into the blue. How Moiraine knew Alwyn would choose blue, and known it certainly enough to have a shawl made, is a mystery. Her mother is a green.

“The better to defend Malkier,” Emmeline says, but Moiraine always points out that she and Alwyn’s other grandmother have always defended Malkier perfectly well, and they are a blue and a yellow.

Alwyn will be her cousin’s Aes Sedai advisor, though, and she is a blue. They have known it will be this way since they were barely old enough to know what an Aes Sedai advisor was when Aes Sedai advisors were not also their grandmothers. Blue is the best option for that, Alwyn has always thought. She will defend Malkier as a blue, like her grandmother, who understands about the snakes and foxes and smiles when Alwyn shows off her ability to win the game.

Alwyn always wins Snakes and Foxes.

A breathless novice interrupts her thoughts and her absent fiddling when she opens the door without knocking.

“Apologies, Alwyn Sedai,” the girl says, panting, “but the Amyrlin Seat calls for you. Immediately, she says. It’s about Kana, she says? She says, run.”

The novice drops a belated curtsey as Alwyn bolts past her and down the hall. When El’Moiraine ti Damodred Mandragoran Aes Sedai, the Amyrlin Seat, says to run, you do so.

She notices other sisters, Malkieri by their ki’sain, running through the halls trailed by their warders. Some of the Aes Sedai do not wear ki’sain at all, but they are invariably followed closely by a man in a hadori. None of them stop to converse.

When Alwyn skids to a stop in the Amyrlin’s study, nearly running into Iseult Brangaine, she isn’t the first to arrive, and she isn’t the last, either. The warders wait outside, but the Aes Sedai are packed in like fishermen’s pallets in Tear by the time the doors close. Alwyn worms her way nearer to the front.

Moiraine stands by the window, Aes Sedai calm wrapped around her like a cloak. She has no warder anymore, but she still looks strangely alone without her usual tail of armed men and women in traditional Malkieri dress around her.

Moiraine turns to look at them, the white stone in her _kesiera_ catching a bit of light and sparkling like a tear.

“Malkier has been attacked,” she says. “Al’Rand and his children are dead. The Dragon’s Peace is broken.”

Alwyn feels something gnawing at the edge of her mind, something slithering through her heart, as Moiraine continues, “I have a question for all of you, and then I have instructions.”

The sisters all nod, though some do it slowly, distantly, as if they cannot quite believe what they are hearing.

“My question,” Moiraine says. “Where do your first loyalties lay?”

Alwyn, on reflex, opens her mouth to say the Tower, and she is not the only one who chokes when the Oaths clamp ruthlessly down. She coughs, and swallows, and Moiraine smiles grimly at the now-silent room.

“Well?” she asks.

Alwyn says, “Malkier.” She does not say it quietly, as some do, and she does not shout it as others do, but however they say it ever sister in the room answers the same way.

Moiraine nods. “Pack for battle. Greens will lead under me, and everyone but the yellows will take the front. Except Alwyn. She stays back.”

The Aes Sedai curtsy, some barely, and rush out.

“I am to stay back from the front?” Alwyn asks.

“I cannot endanger the heir to the throne of Malkier more than I must,” her grandmother says, turning back to the window. “Your mother is already on the wall. One of you needs to come out of this alive.”

Alwyn swallows, thinking of her uncle, who would always swing her as high up as she asked, _high_ , _higher,_ and Kana, who had her grandmother Nynaeve’s gift for Healing but no interest in the Tower and who had always healed injured animals and people indiscriminately.

“What are you planning, Grandmother?” she asks.

Moiraine sighs. It’s deep enough that her shoulders heave, making the snakes embroidered across her shoulders and around her collar and  down her arms seem almost to be moving. The foxes on her hem, large and red-orange and bright against the blue of her dress, look as if they are barely held in check. Her _angreal_ shudders on her wrist, and Alwyn realizes that her grandmother is shaking.

“I am going to wish very hard, Alwyn,” El’Moiraine of Malkier says. “And I am going to kill them all.”

 

* * *

 

 

Moiraine puts one foot forward and then the other, and blinks at the three Wise Ones who stand before her.


	8. Chapter 8

“Do you know if what it shows is inevitable?” Moiraine asks, once she has had enough time to change and wash her face. She doesn’t have her things with her, but Aviendha has scrounged shift, stockings, skirt, and blouse for her. They are all made for a taller woman, and the blouse keeps slipping off one shoulder, but Moiraine supposes it could be worse.

Bair hands her tea as Aviendha says, “Neither Elayne nor I can tell.”

“Was what you saw so terrible?” Sorilea asks.

“Yes,” Moiraine says flatly.

“We believe it shows us warnings,” Aviendha says. “But I was the first to walk back through, that we know of. We simply do not know. I, too, saw things.”

The Al’Rand the pillar-version of herself spoke of would be Lan and Nynaeve’s son. Kana would be their granddaughter.

“How do we _stop_ them?” Moiraine demands.

Aviendha shrugs, as do Bair and Sorilea.

“We think - we hope - even changing little things will help,” Sorilea says. “Names, or places.”

“We can control only our actions,” Aviendha adds. “As you are so fond of reminding us, the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.”

Moiraine considers. She knows of at least one thing she can do. “Why did you ask me to come?”

Bair and Sorilea look pointedly away, but Aviendha says, “I wanted to.”

 

* * *

 

 

Aviendha returns her to Tar Valon, where Thom waits.

“One day you will stop haring off into danger without me,” he says.

“Probably not,” she replies, “but I will usually be sorry about it.”

He shakes his head, but he falls in at her heels.

Iseult has a different warder with her when Moiraine arrives in the Amyrlin’s antechamber. He and Thom exchange nods.

“The Amyrlin is busy,” Iseult says. She sounds as if she has said it many times today. Undoubtedly she has.

Moiraine smiles politely. “The Amyrlin is a busy woman,” she says. “All I need to do is send on a message.”

Iseult’s eyes flick up - another Aes Sedai enters. Moiraine can feel how much stronger she is, and that should give her precedence. She is about to grit her teeth and defer, but Iseult looks back at Moiraine.

“Would you like paper, Moiraine, or would a verbal message suffice?”

“Verbal will do,” Moiraine says. “I must decline her offer, but I was honored to receive it. I will be returning to Malkier this evening.”

Iseult nods, but the door to the study itself swings open.

“Get in here,” Cadsuane snaps.

Moiraine gestures for Thom to remain, and obeys.

“You must _decline_?” Cadsuane demands even as she slams up a ward against eavesdropping.

“And I will be returning to Malkier this evening,” Moiraine says.

Cadsuane glares.

“I am not suited,” Moiraine says.

“You’re suited if I say you are, girl.”

“No,” Moiraine says, hearing herself say, _I’m going to kill them all_ , but it is quiet. Mostly it is drowned out by, _Al’Rand and his children are dead_.

Moiraine is not often afraid, not this bone-deep shuddery feeling, but she is now. She needs to be in Malkier. She _knows_ it.

Cadsuane must hear some of it in her voice, because she leans back against the desk and crosses her arms. Moiraine looks out the window, where she saw herself stand wearing a white _kesiera_ as if it was a widow’s _ki’sain_.

“I cannot be objective,” Moiraine says. “I cannot be unbiased, and the Amyrlin Seat must be, even more than any other Aes Sedai.”

“None of us are unbiased, girl,” Cadsuane says. “All we can do is try.”

Moiraine drags her gaze from the window to meet Cadsuane’s eyes straight on. “I do not want to try,” she says.

Cadsuane’s glare falters, and she searches Moiraine’s face.

“You know something,” she says.

“I know all sorts of things,” Moiraine replies, ignoring Cadsuane’s snort. “Myself best, probably. I promise you - now, later, a century in the future - me in the Amyrlin Seat leads only to ruin.”

Cadsuane says nothing.

“Find someone else,” Moiraine says, and she knows she sounds pleading. She can’t even be sorry for it. “Let me go home.”

Cadsuane, after a long moment, sighs. “I have seen women aplenty with their heads turned by pretty boys and pretty girls. I’m not sure it is a comfort that yours was turned by an ugly country.”

Malkier is not an ugly country, Moiraine thinks fiercely. Malkier is strong, and Malkier will endure, and that is more beautiful than anything she can think to name except perhaps Lan and Nynaeve sitting beside a fire, light gilding the edges of their faces as Nynaeve laughs and Lan looks down, all fake modesty. More than that, Malkier is _her_ country, and she is… what?

“I belong there,” she says instead of any of that.

There isn’t much to say after that. She takes her leave with an appropriately respectful curtsey and leaves to collect Thom.

Iseult has three warders with her this time, including the one from earlier but not the one with the hadori. How many does the woman _have_?

“If it pleases you, Moiraine, I will send you back,” Iseult says. “Around dusk?”

Moiraine shoots a glance at Thom. He nods.

“I would be honored,” Moiraine replies. Thom says nothing when they return to her rooms, though she keeps trying to prod him.

 

* * *

 

 

Moiraine arrives at the Travelling ground before dusk, still without having changed from the blouse and skirt the Wise Ones gave her. She could have, but Thom had dared her to  play Snakes and Foxes and she had something she wanted to try out.

She had won Snakes and Foxes all five times.

Thom  had sat back and frowned at her, chewing at an unlit pipe.

“It isn’t all I brought back,” she had said.

Thom’s crooked grin matched the sudden wry humor she felt in her head. “That, Moiraine Sedai,” he had said, “is nothing less than I expected.”

Now, she waits. It is Thom that alerts her to the Aes Sedai who approaches.

Moshein Pendanon is a brown and one of the few Malkieri Aes Sedai left, if not the only one. She is close to Moiraine’s height, has iron grey hair, wears a blue _ki’sain_ and dresses Moiraine knows to be the high fashions of Malkier before it was overrun, and she has not bonded another warder since her last one died twenty years ago.

Moiraine knows all of this because when Lan had met her on one of their rare visits to the tower, she had felt his shock at seeing her, and had done his best to hide behind Moiraine when Moshein curtseyed shallowly in his direction. Moiraine knows it, because anyone that has the kind of power to make Lan sad and relieved all at once was someone she wanted to know about, just in case he wanted the information.

Moshein says, “They call you Moiraine of Malkier, now.”

Moiraine does not quite scramble to her feet, but it is close. Moshein is not that much more powerful than she is, but Moshein is considerably older, and Moshein is a Malkieri survivor. She curtseys, the exact depth that Moshein gave to Lan a decade ago, and says nothing.

Moshein shakes her head and sits, gesturing for Moiraine to do the same. “You do not bow to me, Moiraine. You have kept him safe and sane, and delivered him home.”

“Nynaeve and Myrelle had something to do with that,” Moiraine says.

“Malkier,” Moshein whispers, and Moiraine pretends not to notice the tear that Moshein wipes away. “I tried, you know. We all did. When Malkier fell and we were called back, those of us sent, we Malkieri kept on anyway. Some of us died then. Most of us died later, because we could not let it go.”

Moshein has more tears than she can wipe away now, and Moiraine can no longer ignore them. She gently pries the handkerchief that Moshein holds clenched in a fist free, and tries to dab at the other woman’s face, settling on her knees to better reach. Moshein watches her face with uncomfortable intensity.

“I went to the edge of the blight so many times,” Moshein says. “I lost four warders. I nearly followed more times than I can count. And I never did. I could never seem to win, and I could never seem to die either. Eventually I stopped trying. You never stopped, did you?”

“Malkier was not my goal,” Moiraine confesses, sitting back. “The world was my goal, and if I could keep Lan safe while I did it - well. I paid a price, but it was a small price to pay.”

Moshein slides from her chair to her knees as well, reaching to clasp Moiraine’s hands in her own. “Maybe this is why I could not die,” she says. “Maybe I am here to aid Malkier, and you. Take me with you, Moiraine. I would like to see the golden crane flying again, where it should be.”

And, well. Moiraine cannot deny her that.


	9. Chapter 9

Iseult, accompanied by no less than six warders, arrives only a few minutes later. Moiraine tries to thank her, but she waves it off and sends one of her warders to pack for Moshein.

Another of her warders, who when she speaks turns out to be a woman, says, “We would all do more, for someone who did so much for Kaede.”

The warder in the hadori bows, but says nothing.

“He’s shy,” another warder says, clapping the unfortunate Kaede on the shoulder. “Iseult hasn’t managed to cure him of it yet, but we’re all working on it.”

Moiraine shakes her head, and Moshein gives the man a stiff look for leaving off the honorific, but he just grins irrepressibly.

“Don’t mind Ahearn,” Iseult says later just before Moiraine steps through. “He’s never been very good with genuine emotion. Alhana’s right, though. We would do more. Call? If Malkier needs us.”

Moshein and Moiraine exchange looks, and Moiraine notes that Moshein is already aligning herself strictly with Moiraine when she waits for Moiraine to answer.

“We will,” Moiraine says. “If we need you.”

They leave, Thom taking Moshein’s arm on the way through, a bag of her things in his other hand. “The way back to the palace still isn’t clear,” he explains. “I would hate for you to stumble.”

Moiraine shoots Thom a look, and he raises an eyebrow. She forgets, sometimes, that he flirts like breathing, because he doesn’t with her anymore.

Moshein gives a watery laugh and lets him lead her up.

“We’re very informal here,” Moiraine explains a little anxiously, when the two guards open the doors to let her enter the empty throne room. Her chair is moved up next to Lan and Nynaeve’s again. “And we aren’t entirely sure if we’ve got the architecture right, but we are trying -”

“It’s perfect,” Moshein says. “It’s _perfect_.”

“We do have a few guest suites we keep available,” Moiraine says, to avoid addressing the way Moshein is clinging to Thom, as if she couldn’t stand otherwise. “We’ll put you in one for now, but we can manage some actual apartments later, I’m sure. Nynaeve will want to make sure they’re perfect first, so that might take a bit, but in the meantime you should be comfortable, and Lan…”

Moiraine trails off, realizing she’s speaking as if Moshein is moving here permanently and not only visiting. And why not? Lan has issued a decree that all Malkieri are welcome back, no matter how long they have been in other nations, and their children, too. Moshein _is_ welcome, if she wants to be.

Moiraine is sure she wants to be. The Tower was harping about a different Aes Sedai advisor anyway, weren’t they?

“Lan will want to speak with you,” Moiraine says, and Moshein looks at her with wide eyes. “Perhaps after you’ve had some time to freshen up?”

“Yes, thank you.” Moshein waits until Moiraine has sent a guard to find the shatayan, who she sends to set Mohein’s room up. Moshein takes it as the honor it is, nodding regally, and tells Thom to leave her things to be taken care of so he can attend to his duties as Moiraine’s warder, thank you.

Moiraine does not smile, but Thom frowns at her anyway as Moshein is led away.

“I’m going to appraise Lan and Nynaeve of the situation,” Moiraine says before Thom can start trying to take up his duties as her warder, and hurries away.

Lan is sleepy and content, in her head. A brief spark of wakefulness registered when she stepped through the gateway, but he can feel her heading his way just as she can feel his general happiness as he drifts off to sleep.

It’s nice to feel him happy so often. She’s sorry she’s going to wake him and Nynaeve up, but she thinks Lan will want to know about Moshein sooner rather than later.

The guards let her into the royal suite without blinking and close the door behind her. Probably other Aes Sedai in other countries have to wait for permission. She can’t help but feel a little smug.

The royal apartments have Nynaeve and Lan written all over them, in lumpily embroidered cushions and carefully arranged furniture that is definitely not new. Moiraine realizes with a start that her old shawl, the one packed in her bags at Rhuidean, is draped over a chair in the corner. She’s never noticed it before or maybe it has never been in evidence when she is in the sitting room. There is her book from earlier this month beside it on the little table, too, left open past her ribbon bookmark.

She picks up the shawl and runs it through her fingers. It is the shawl she was given when she was first raised to Aes Sedai, the blue fringe still bright, the flame of Tar Valon on the back. She has a new one now, that Nynaeve had made for her: it has cranes tucked into the stylized air currents, and little snakes in the corners, and delicately embroidered foxes playing hide-and-seek  amongst the scrolling vines along the edges.

She isn’t even surprised anymore, that somehow snakes and foxes wormed their way in beside the cranes Nynave commissioned.

This shawl, though, is relatively plain. She holds it up to her nose and smells sword oil and a little sweat.

Of course he saves her shawl, after Rhuidean. She doesn’t know what else he would have done with it. She catches a whiff of perfume too: Nynaeve’s.

Moiraine shakes her head and puts the shawl down. She can picture Nynaeve sitting in the chair, reading her book and wearing the shawl Lan has kept for nearly six years as if it is perfectly natural. She supposes it is: she wouldn’t blink an eye if she were to walk in on it.

The door to the bedroom opens easily when she turns the handle, and she stops to take in, for a moment, Lan and Nynaeve. They appear to have stopped to sit down for a moment or two before dinner and fallen asleep. Some kind maid or manservant has left them there, and left a covered tray of cold food on the dresser.

Lan is asleep on top of the covers, feet still in boots and hanging off the side. Nynaeve has managed to kick off her slippers: Moiraine can see them on the floor. Nynaeve has also managed to burrow under half the blankets, folded up and over, so that she’s curled into Lan but has untucked the ends from underneath the mattress. Moiraine has no idea how she’s done it.

Lan responds sluggishly in her head when she _pulls_ on the bond a bit and walks over to stand beside the bed. For once she is looking down at him as his eyes blink open.

She feels the little zing of pleasure when he sees her, the deeper comfort of home and love, and smiles down at him. He smiles back and leans up to kiss her, natural as breathing.

“Hello,” she says  faintly. She feels a little as if she has been taken out of time again.

“Hello,” Lan says, smiling, corners of his eyes crinkling the way she especially likes.

Nynaeve, awake now if only barely, reaches out to tug her down on the bed. All three of them shuffle a little awkwardly, Lan still trying to keep his boots off the bed, until they have settled comfortably. Somehow Moiraine has ended up in the middle. She supposes she can  wait to tell them about the Amyrlin seat and her visions. Moshein will need some time to compose herself, too.

Nynaeve kisses her, clumsy with sleep, and says, “Welcome home.”


	10. Epilogue

Two Years Later

Moiraine holds Egwene Mandragoran against her, humming tunelessly, and when that fails to calm her completely she starts talking. Why didn’t she think of it before? Egwene al’Vere would never have stood to be condescended to: Moiraine doesn’t know why she thought Egwene’s namesake would be any different.

“It’s alright, you know,” she murmurs to the infant, who does fall silent. “There are guards everywhere, and your mother, and your father too. He isn’t bad with a sword.”

Egwene lets out a little questioning noise, or so Moiraine assumes. She is learning childcare, but she has never counted it amongst her skillsets.

“Yes, I’m here too. I have you.”

Egwene stares up at her, apparently entranced. Moiraine supposes it could be the light glittering off her red  _kesiera,_ but she chooses to believe Egwene is listening to her.

“I will always keep you safe,” Moiraine tells her, the softest, most sincere promise she may ever make. She glances around, but Lan has fallen asleep sitting up against the headboard and Nynaeve is face first and spread-eagle on the bed, taking up most of the mattress and no doubt all of the pillows. Moiraine smiles at the sight and holds Egwene closer, curling over her as if she can keep the whole world at bay.

She can’t, she knows. It wouldn’t be good for Egwene or Malkier, just as it wouldn’t have been good for the first Egwene, who had only wanted to learn. But she can do this. She holds Nynaeve’s daughter – and Lan’s daughter, and _her_ daughter too – close.

Moiraine closes her eyes, and she _wishes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I MEANT to have Elayne show up, I did, but this just seemed like the natural place to end it. Also planned but never actually written: Moiraine/Nynaeve/Lan scene edging into smut. I kind of regret it not existing. MAYBE ONE DAY.
> 
> Thank you so much to all my reviewers and kudos-ers. I'm really glad you enjoyed this.


End file.
